


Toe the Line

by Allegory_for_Hatred



Category: Camp Camp (Web Series)
Genre: Child Neglect, Gen, Hiding Medical Issues, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 07:32:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16511960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allegory_for_Hatred/pseuds/Allegory_for_Hatred
Summary: Max is hurt. Like the logical child he is, he doesn't tell anyone.





	Toe the Line

 

Max is initially aware that he’d rather be asleep. This, in itself, is not entirely uncharacteristic—he would always rather be asleep than at this god-awful camp. Rather, on most occasion Max would choose death over being at this stupid camp with stupid, cheerful David. This is both a product of his temperament and lifestyle.

The second thing Max becomes aware of was that his foot really fucking hurts.

Faced pressed tight, Max sits up and pushes the blanket off of his foot—starting with the intention to look at how he’d managed to bruise it overnight, and ending with a moderately separate reaction. His left foot is red and inflamed at the heel, throbbing dutifully and hurtfully where the blanket has rubbed against it.

“Ow—what the fuck!” He hisses under his breath, regarding the swollen skin with a look almost betrayed. This isn’t good. He’s stuck at this shitty camp with shitty David who Max just  _knows_  is going to throw a fit about this when he finds out. Make them do medical camp or something stupid Max doesn’t want to participate in.

The air still feels cold on Max’s scrunched up face, so he figures he’s got maybe half-an-hour before the sun rises and the other campers start to wake up. That’s thirty minutes to figure out what’s wrong with his foot and fix it. Not a long time, but he’s done more with less (specifically, stolen a bus with two half-strangers and a knitted doll, but he’s not one to brag).

If there’s one thing Max knows about medicine, it would be this: pills make everything better. Of course, Max doesn’t have access to the good stuff. He improvises by poking the enflamed skin.

It hurts. A lot.

“Ah, fuck!” he shouts. His foot’s red went white where he touched it before flushing a deeper shade, but for a second Max was able to make out a small puncture mark, looking to be scabbing over dutifully, if not prematurely. Where the mark is, puss has started seeping out of. It looks nasty, and Max turns away.

Max fancies himself a logical, if spiteful, child, but this situation is throwing him. His foot is throbbing hurt and oozing something yellow-green. The first thought to pass his mind aside from “wow, this fucking hurts,” is “I need help.” He’s not even sure if he can stand up, given that it smarts so much from just a poke. He can’t fix this and he can’t tell David and he can’t tell  _anyone_  and he’s going to  _have_  to figure it out without help.

(Max trusts himself more than he does anyone else. He’s not sure he wants anyone else to know he isn’t in top shape. He doesn’t want to know what they’ll do if they do figure it out.)

Anyway, he spends twenty minutes trying to force the lip of his shoe over his heel without shedding a tear. He tells himself he succeeds, even though the wetness on his cheeks seems to differ. It’s all dried by the time Neil wakes up.

Neil gives him a sad look. “...you’re up? Is it insomnia again?”

“Fuck you,” Max says, taking a moment to hate the heavy concern in his friend’s voice.

Raising an eyebrow, Neil gives him a look—one Max doesn’t bother to decipher. He waits until the scientist’s eyes travel down to his shoe-clad feet. “You must have been up for a while. I still don’t see why you won’t just tell David or Gwen about this.”

“First of all: David and Gwen, really? I don’t trust them with basic adult things, like cooking and bills and not losing kids to rival camps. Why would I trust those two with my own wellbeing?” Max glared, “Second: I’ve only been up for twenty minutes. Calm your nerdy ass down.”

“Shit, Max. Okay.” Neil snorts, looking affronted in the shadow-light of their tent.

Max gives it a second. “I’m going to lay around for a while. Head to breakfast already.”

Neil’s concern returns full-force and unrepentant, but otherwise mute. “...okay. Hurry up.”

“Yeah, yeah. Bye.” He waves off Neil, looking unbothered. Max waits until his tent-mate was gone, then waits two minutes longer just in case. When he’s sure he’s alone, Max collapses backwards into his pillow.

“Ugh, damn.” His foot is absolutely buzzing with a persistent, needle-like pain. Standing up is going to suck ass, but David will figure him out if he didn’t show up for coffee. Also: Max wants coffee.

Experimentally, Max tries putting a little pressure on his left foot, but winces back when it sends a shot of pain through his heel. Not that, then. He sits up fully and transitions to standing one-legged. It worked fine, but he looks really stupid and obvious. ...was hopping better than limping?

Well, fuck that noise.

Max walks out of the tent with a slow caution on the sole of his right foot and the side of his left. It’s an uncomfortable walk, and Max is certain he would bruise for it, but it was the clear alternative here. It only seemed like he was limping if someone was really paying attention.

(No one pays attention to Max. Not at camp, and certainly not at home.)

Half-walking to the mess hall is mostly a success. Sure, it takes him three minutes to make a forty-second trip, but Max is counting it as a win. He didn’t cry this time, at least, and when he can’t actually see how inflamed and puss-covered his heel is the wound doesn’t seem that serious, even if it still hurts the same.

Getting his coffee and sitting down with only a minor hobble feels like a success. Max celebrates by burning his tongue on the scalding, black goop this poor-excuse for a camp calls coffee.

But, of course, David is there to ruin Max’s victory party.

“Max... I saw you come in late today,” his voice is grating and painfully pleasant, “...Is everything okay?”

He lets the bitter taste of coffee fill the moment. He supposes David  _would_  notice that he gets up early—half due to insomnia and half to wanting to brew a pot himself. These other chucklefucks don’t know how to do it right. This is what Max is thinking, but what he actually says is this, “David, go away. Does it look like I want to deal with you this early in the morning?”

Nikki, somewhere to Max’s left (where he’s not looking, too busy staring down the cheer in David’s eyes), snorts. “Max never wants to deal with you!” She’s both too energetic for this time of day and very accurate. (She’s also gnawing on toast like a wolf, and Max tries not to let that image ruin her credibility.)

“Well,” David coughs awkwardly, but still manages to look chipper. “I’m just making sure every camper is happy and healthy this morning—” he ignores Max’s groan, continuing in a voice loud enough for all the campers to hear, “—because today we’ll be going on a scavenger hunt! You’ll all need to be in tip-top shape to win!”

Through a collection of groans and questions about a prize, David seems to find it in himself to ignore Neil’s affronted, “because that worked out so well the last time.”

Max is so hung up on how much he hates David, he almost forgets that his foot is living in a state of constant agony. He downs the rest of his coffee, locks eyes with David (who’s half-way through explaining that the only prize he can offer is a pat on the back and a big smile—which,  _no thank you_ ) and says a flat, “No.”

“Aww, Max—” the counselor tries to start, but Nikki is faster.

“Come on, grumpy pants! It could be fun!” David looks like he’s about to agree until she adds sharply, “We might find a wolf! I wanna fight one and take over the pack! Grrrrr—!”

“Nikki, stop growling—” Neil groans.

She does not, and they leave the mess hall together, locked in a conversation Max is certain is half-made-up entirely of growls. He doesn’t know how Neil keeps up with her. He doesn’t know how  _he_  keeps up with her.

The other campers seem to file out after them, taking the silent cue to leave unanimously and unflinchingly.

David turns back to Max in the still, looking sheepish. “Well... maybe we won’t do  _that._  But it’ll be fun!”

“Not today, camp man.”

That look Neil was wearing this morning is back, but it looks even more infuriating on David’s ugly mug. It’s  _concern_. “Is something wrong?”

Of course—Max was too specific. To rectify the situation, he adds a hasty yet flippant, “Not  _any_  day, either. I can’t deal with your overwhelming joy another second, let alone deal with this bullshit activity all day.”

“Max...” David’s voice is admonishing, but his brows are still quirked in an oddly expressive concern. He knows something is up.

To be fair, Max isn’t really trying all that hard. His plan for the encounter had been: don’t get into an encounter—that had been his plan for every day, actually, mysterious injury or no. It has never worked to date. David is more politely persistent than Max gives him credit for, the monster.

In a bout of hatred for David, Max forgets two things. One: storming off will make the counselor warier; and two: Max’s foot is fucked up, possibly irreparably.

Max storms off and immediately hisses in pain, flinches, and falls over—catching himself on the table a second before the floor makes itself his new pillow. The pain is so sudden and sharp, Max thinks he might throw up for a second.

David is at Max’s side before Max even realizes what happened. When he comes to, the ten-year-old is immediately pushing David’s supportive hand away. “Shit—David get off of me.”

—which seems to do the trick well enough. It has David stepping back, but the concerned expression has somehow tripled itself on his face (a feat Max wasn’t sure was possible before now).

“You’re—” he starts, failingly, then corrects to, “—. What’s wrong, Max? Are you hurt? What’s—”

“Fuck off, David, holy shit.”

Taking a calming breath, David seems to reprimand himself for the chaos of care. “Did you hurt your leg?”

Shit. Max is really screwing this up all over the place—so much for toughing it out. They’ll be in medical camp in the next thirty seconds if Max doesn’t fix his mistake soon. He’d run away if he could, but the physical pressures of moving are too painful to risk it.

Which isn’t to say Max doesn’t hobble, because he does. Or, tries to, that is, but David was paying attention now. He doesn’t get more than two painful, sideways steps away before David is sighing and moving towards him, spinning Max around with a lazy hand.

“I can’t have you going out if you’re hurt, Max.” David’s frown is deep and discordant with Max’s understanding of the man. While tightening the hand on Max’s shoulder, David gets on his knees to look the boy on squarely. He doesn’t say anything for a second, so Max takes his cue.

“I  _know_ ,” He groans, face paling nervously from the attention. (No one looked at Max this long and hard. No one looked at Max like they could care about him.) “You’re going to make me do something here. Which is even worse, because I can’t run away when you get too annoying if you’re standing  _right there_.”

The counselor's frown twitches upwards. “It doesn’t look like you can run anyway.” At Max’s deep-seated, exasperated scowl, David corrects himself. “—er. Max... I won’t make you participate in an activity if you aren’t feeling well. Especially if you can’t move around without hurting yourself.”

And that’s—honestly a little surprising? But Max’ll be damned if he lets that show on his face. He thought for sure David would have him doing some bullshit safety class, at least. Max is about to smarmily tell the man as such when the door slams back open to the shouting of,

“Daviiiid! What’s taking so long?!” Nikki, whining noisily, “We can’t fight wolves without Max’s snide comments to keep morale low!”

and Neil’s, “Nikki, that’s not—you know what? I don’t even care.”

The shouting, at least, has David jumping back at the suddenness of the intrusion. Max has a vague hope that the distraction is enough to get the camp man off his back, but another more sincere part of him is hoping someone might help with his foot. Get him some medicine, or something, to make it stop hurting so damn much.

Unfortunately for maybe half of Max’s expectations, Neil seems to pick up on the mood.

“What’s wrong?” He asks haltingly, watching where David is still kneeled in front of his friend.

While Nikki doesn’t share Neil’s caution, she’s smart enough to not charge in without giving David a moment to respond. Max isn’t sure where he stands on this.

“Nikki, Neil, could you give us a moment, please?”

“What?” blue-haired and fast, Nikki is at Max’s side faster than he can un-blink himself. Her presence is a comfort for the split second before she’s leaning to hard, forcing Max to put more weight on his poor foot.

He tries to hide his wince, and promptly fails. “Shit, Nikki. Watch out!” Max also tries to make his voice harsh, but it’s a sharp squeak instead.

Nikki has the gall to look surprise when she bounces away from him, hands pressed to her chest defensively. Max isn’t given the chance to apologize for snapping (as if he would do that anyway) because David seems to have finally remembered himself and is a rock to hold Max upright.

Max pretends he isn’t grateful, even though he would have fallen over without the counselor there.

“Shit, Max, are you hurt?” Neil asks reproachfully.

“I’m not  _hurt_!” he argues, “Nikki just fucking ran into me!”

(People don’t look at Max like—)

“Max,” David interrupts his thought, squeezing Max’s shoulder in a way that catches the boy off-guard. It’s a comforting feeling. The hand is strong and unrelenting—it doesn’t seem like David will give anytime soon. Now that Nikki and Neil have arrived, Max is decently certain they’ve all got him trapped here.

It’s fucking unbearable. He sighs, then relents. Max is living on the basis that the sooner he shows them his foot the sooner they might leave him the fuck alone. “Alright, whatever.” It’s aching something real shitty now, anyway.

So Max props himself up on the table and slowly, painstakingly, takes off his left shoe. And—surprise fucking surprise—it looks worse. It’s like ignoring his swollen, puss-ing wound  _wouldn’t_  make it go away. Contrary to the turn of current events, Max is actually quite smart.

David leans forward in time with Neil and Nikki, but all three pull back when the wound touches the air. It’s swollen and beet-red, sticky yellow where the puss got pushed around. It’s fucking nasty, and they can all tell how much it must hurt just by looking at it.

“I-it looks infected. What did you do?” Neil offers, sounding weakly curious.

At his side, Nikki is a mix of chaotic energy and mild concern. She looks like she’s about to poke at Max’s foot when David stops her.

(—this. The look on his face is so utterly  _worried_  Max is going to be sick. He can’t even remember the last time his parents  _looked_  at him, let alone with worry.)

“Neil, Nikki—I'm going to take Max to my cabin to get this—er,” it’s like he’s struggling to look at Max’s heel the way the counselor bends away, “looked at.” His conclusion is dull. “Could you tell Gwen I won’t be able to help with the scavenger hunt right now, please?”

Even though Max can see the protest on his friends’ tongue, they do both leave. It’s a muted departure and he knows David only won that exchange because of the quiet fear in his voice. Adults showing fear is maybe the most terrifying thing to a child—not that Max fits into that category, of course. Anyway, he’s at least somewhat grateful. He can always blackmail David out of holding this bout of weakness over his head, but Nikki and Neil are perpetual wild cards.

Max’s lips are parted, half-way to getting to the ‘blackmail’ stage of his half-baked plan when David picks him up. It’s a bridal carry. God-damnit he hates David. “What the f—David put me down! I can  _walk_.”

The look the man gives him is that dreadful, pressed look of fearful concern that max detests. The type of look he doesn’t really deserve. “...I don’t want you to get hurt anymore, okay?”

It’s a fact that Max can’t walk, actually. He can appreciate David’s quiet acceptance on some level, but it’s also a bit annoying. Anyway, he doesn’t struggle much in the counselor’s arms despite increasingly explicit protests.

By the time Max is seated on a decent sofa in the cabin, he’s expended all of the swears he can think of without getting too creative. David doesn’t waste a second in grabbing the first-aid kit, and after a second of contemplation, his phone off the desk. Max is instantly on guard.

“I wouldn’t be doing this if it didn’t hurt so much,” he justifies grumpily.

“Of course,” but David’s voice is distant in his focus. He’s got his face close to Max’s heel and is seeming to look for something. After a second, he sighs something heavy, but faintly relieved. “You’ve got a splinter, I think.”

“A—” his foot is screaming in actual agony. Max’s heel has been the devil’s plaything for the last hour or two. “ —a fucking  _splinter_?! This hurts like  _shit David._ I know what a  _splinter_ feels like!”

David sighs and sits back up fully. “W-well... um. If you leave one in for too long it’ll get infected. Like this.”

“You know what? Why not.” Max sinks further into the sofa. “Just get it out, if you’re going to stare at it all day.”

“Well...”

“...Well?”

David turns away, sheepish. His fingers play with the phone in his hands. “I think we’re better off going to a doctor for this, Max.”

“It’s a splinter, David. Just pull it out. Case closed.”

Max winces as the counselor pulls away from his heel, a painful throb shooting up his leg. David’s frown deepens. “It’s  _infected._  Badly infected. I think we should play this one safe and have a professional take a look at it.”

If this didn’t hurt so bad, Max would, in fact, have a good argument to force David off. But the thing about pain is this: when you’re in pain, that’s all you can think about. He’s focused on the pain and the fear so much he can’t imagine how much he fucking hates David. This is the biggest sign that maybe he should just relent.

Also, if he doesn’t get this fixed now, Max won’t ever be able to run away from this god-awful camp fast enough.

He’s quiet for a second, feeling tortured by the fact that David seems to be waiting for his confirmation. Finally, he whispers, “...I can’t pay for it.”

“Wh—what? Why would you pay?” David’s eyebrows shoot up in a second of shock before muting to disbelief or concern or something Max is trying hard not to focus on. “You’re ten, Max.”

“Because it’s for my fucking foot, dipshit.”

David must have put  _something_ together, because that ugly concerned look returns full-force and then some. Max hasn’t got a clue, and he doesn’t really care. The strong hand on his shoulder returns, too. Max adamantly refuses to acknowledge that it is somewhat comforting. “...it’s okay, Max. I’ve —I’ve got this one covered.” The hand on Max’s shoulder squeezes tighter. When Max doesn’t look convinced, he adds a soft, “...how about this? When you feel better, you can pay me back by actually  _trying_  during an activity.”

“Ew,” he says, because he’s Max and that sounds disgusting. But if Max signs off now, David can’t hold anything over his head later on, so he nods anyway. With his heel throbbing this much, Max is just about willing to do anything to make it stop—even  _if_  that means letting David take control here.

Goddamn he hates David.

A wave of pain rocks Max’s foot and he squeezes his eyes shut hurtfully. “Ugh. Whatever. Let’s just get this over with already.”

He doesn’t say much, but David lifts Max up off the sofa and into his arms. Max doesn’t try to curse off his carrier this time, because David dropping him and him landing on his foot would suck more than this situation already does inherent.

David is gentle when he settles Max into the backseat—alone and buckled safe. It’s an unusual feeling of safety that Max both is unused to and unsettled by, but still somehow entirely content with. Ugh. When David takes his seat by the driver’s wheel, he glances back at Max, who’s inspecting his heel with a disgusted look on his face.

“Is everything okay, Max?” He asks, “We’ll be at the doctor’s in ten minutes—are you okay until then?”

“David—fuck. It’s a splinter, not a heart attack. I can wait all day and nothing will change.”

It looks like David wants to say something, but holds back. Either way, the car is pulling out, so Max counts it as a win. David—that monster—finds this the perfect time for small talk. Max finds that he hates David a little bit more because of this.

He rolls his eyes when David asks how his week is going.

“How do you think? I’m stuck at this shithole of a camp. My foot has decided it doesn’t want to fucking be a part of me anymore.” Their eyes meet in the mirror. “I’m doing just peachy, David. How’s  _your_  week going?”

God. David drives so slow. “Oh, come on Max! I’m just making conversation.” He has the gall to laugh. “And thank you for asking—”

“Fucking christ.”

“—! My week is going just wonderful! Well, aside from you getting hurt. I’m very worried about how much you must be hurting, but we’ll get that fixed up soon.”

Max adamantly ignores any other attempts by David to make conversation, only tuning back in when the questions seem relevant or interesting. One question in particular has his breath freezing.

“You know I’m here to help, right?”

Max knows adults are prone to apathy and deceit, but when David says it the words carry a sort of meaning. The love in his voice makes Max feel sick.

(Last time Max was sick, really, he woke up at three in the morning and promptly threw up on the floor. Three days later, his mother got back from business and complained of the smell. The love in her voice was for the house alone, and it was mourning a lack of quiet cleanliness.)

“Whatever.” Is what Max actually says.

The doctor is an older woman wearing glasses, and Max hates her. She inspects his foot from where it’s dangling off the side of the exam bed when she declares, “You’re right. It looks like a splinter. I’ll clean this up then we can take a better look.”

Yes, cleaning it does hurt. Max is starting to think walking on it wouldn’t have been this bad—she's persistent and thorough and it  _hurts_. He automatically leans closer to where David stands at his side.

David, for his part, is smiling lowly, looking pleased at the care Max is getting—and also at how the boy is moving unconsciously closer. With another pained squeak from him, David takes Max’s hand in his.

“Fuck you,” Max spits out. He doesn’t let go of the hand, though. Instead, he squeezes back tighter.

The doctor’s eyes widen, but she doesn’t say anything. Her expression looks disapproving, though, and Max takes a little pride in that.

By the time she’s finished cleaning the puss off his heel, the doctor’s looking a bit worn down by Max, who’s swearing filled the silence for maybe five minutes more. To be fair, he hasn’t been swearing at her. He’s mad at David for holding his hand and he’s mad at himself for liking it. But with the wound cleaned up, the doctor can finally pull the damned splinter out. This is when things get worse.

She pulls out a scalpel.

“What the hell.” Max retrieves his foot from over the bed and pulls it up onto the cushion with the rest of him, holding it an inch above bed. “Just use tweezers holy shit.”

David pulls a face and lets his hold on Max’s fingers tighten. He doesn’t say anything, and Max isn’t sure why it hurts. Why he expected just this  _one_  adult to jump to his defense.

“The splinter’s been in there for a while—the skin closed over it.” The doctor explains as she tries to coax Max back to cooperation. “Just one little cut so I can pull it out.”

“No!” he startles further back onto the bed, smashing his heel sharply on the bed but refusing to cry out. Fuck. He hates this. He hates that David knows he hates this.

“Max...” the counselor is suddenly in front of him, eyes searching and wide. “It’ll be quick. I’ll be here.”

(“I’ll be there,” his mother says, filling out some forms on her desk.

Max fixes the strap of his guitar on his shoulder, but smiles something small.

Two days later, he does the talent show alone. His mom isn’t there, so Max walks back home. He doesn’t tell her he won, and she never asks.)

David’s hand is in his, the other on his shoulder. Max starts to cry. Then he relents.

He falls asleep on the drive back to camp. It isn’t late, but he’s feeling worn out from the stress of things.

When Max comes too, he’s initially aware that he’d rather be asleep. His heel still hurts where it was cut, but now it’s wrapped up behind a bandage. The pain is dulling where David gave him some pills for the hurt.

The second thing he becomes aware of is that David is gently setting him down on his bed in the cabin.

It’s embarrassing to be cared for this much. (Max feels like such a  _child.)_ David must catch the nervous look Max is giving him, because he gives out a soft smile. “You’ve had a long day, Max. Go ahead and sleep."

He’s too tired to argue, but that heavy feeling in his chest is still there. David’s face isn’t pressed in concern anymore and the pain in his heel eases up a lot. He mutely wonders if the medicine was non-drowsy, because it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it.

David smiles at the dopey expression on Max’s face and blankets him. “Goodnight, Max.”

As the counselor turns to leave, Max reaches out and takes the man’s hand. “Stay.” His voice cracks.

Then sleep takes precedence to panic.

Max is an insomniac, which means he never really gets enough sleep, among other things. But last night he slept better than he ever has before. When he wakes up, David’s hand is still in his from where the counselor sits at the side of his bed.

There’s a guitar leaning against the bedside table. Max wonders if David would listen to him play someday. The sky is dark and David is asleep, so it’s okay if this thought makes Max smile wide.

**Author's Note:**

> \ I've never written hurt/comfort before and wanted to give it a try! /  
> its a lot longer than i wanted it to be  
> i was doing a test for this style of writing? aiming for like 1000 words but got carried away... sorry : 0
> 
> anyway , i wanted to take a break from another fic im writing so ... haha  
> funfact i had a splinter get infected in my heel once, except i never went to the doctor for it. it's still in there if you look haha but the infection just sort of went away lol  
> i watched camp camp for the first time a couple weeks ago lol ... im late to the party hope, , the fandom isnt too dead to not read this l o l
> 
> Enjoy ! or dont .


End file.
